The drawing board was home to the dining table
which curved and shined a warm brown.
Many hours I would spend there,
the scent of mahogany
permeating my day-dreams
through the calmness of space.
Others – if hundreds – had dined
with the golden set of cutlery released only at
special occasions,
but seldom did I take my food there as
it is known I am a dreamer without sustenance.
The room was close through the silence of the day,
clanks of past plates did not cease to echo,
they electrified my present mood, generating me to
walk round and round and fantasize endlessly
about the whisperings that had been,
what looks were exchanged,
any laughs that turned to cries,
which children sat upon whose knee,
the best served dish,
who had filled their first heart of contentment since June.
Internal laps, the room
contained the motion through
the synchrony of ticking clocks and folded napkins
slid upon the surface.
Each time I do not expect to spin, but I do and I fall, over and over,
until I decide to draw an old chair and sit,
head in my hands.